The Eye of the Wolf (32 page)

With
that thought, Mikayla turned her attention away from the faint cheers that rose
from the street in front to the diary that spread across her lap. She scribbled
a few notes on the notepad at her elbow and closed the diary, marking her
place. It was interesting to note that Malachi had wished to not be king, to
bring democracy to the island, but he had lacked the knowledge or the will to
bring about that large of a change. It was also interesting to note that his
grandmother, Queen Elena, had wished for the destruction of the jewel, the Eye
of the Wolf. Why?

The
mention of the Eye of the Wolf brought her conversation with Victoria the day
before to the forefront of her mind. She had pushed the idea into the back of
her mind, but the mention of the stone and the Queen’s wish to see it destroyed
raised questions. What was the curse? And why was it of such an interest to
people in the past and present?

Mikayla
stood from her beach chair and slipped her shoes on. She slid into the house
and locked the diary in a kitchen drawer where it would be undisturbed by any
intruders in her house. She checked the lock on the cellar door, the deadbolt
that she had added as an extra precaution after dismantling the rope pull in
the cellar to the stone door. With her notepad and pen gripped firmly in her
hand, she slipped from the house into the crowds that lined the streets. She
wove her way through the people working her way towards the Hall of Records
where she had started her research and where, invariably, it would end.

Mikayla
stepped out of the hot Mediterranean sun into the darkness and cool air of the
Museum of History. The place was empty, which wasn’t surprising since all
tourists would be enjoying the beautiful weather and the coronation celebration
out-of-doors, ignoring the history that had led to this moment for the new
king. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness of the light and looked across
the Hall of History to the closed door on the other side. A light shone from
beneath the door.

Mikayla
let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She may have tried
to fool herself into believing that she was there to use the Hall of Records,
but she knew she was there to use Dejeune’s computer since hers had been stolen
and to pick his brain about what he knew about the Eye of the Wolf. Slowly, she
made her way across the hall to the door. She raised her hand to knock when the
door was thrown open, bright light streaming out, blinding her momentarily
until her eyes adjusted.

Rene
Dejeune stood before her, a pair of scissors gripped in his hand, the points
forward, heart level on Mikayla’s chest. His deep eyes were wide with what
initially Mikayla took for fear but quickly decided was surprise. He smiled
broadly and stepped back so she might step into his office.

“Doctor
Knight, I am surprised to see you today.” His thick accent was warm, welcoming.
He moved around his cluttered desk and seated himself again. He picked up a
newspaper and continued to clip an article where he had left off. “I heard a
noise in the gallery and was coming to investigate. I thought it might be one
of those obnoxious American tourists with their flash cameras.”

Mikayla
smirked as she slipped into his office and seated herself across from him.
“Obnoxious Americans, hunh?”

Dejeune
raised his dark eyes. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Mikayla
waved a hand in dismissal. “I completely understand. I find Americans kind of
obnoxious myself.”

Dejeune
bowed a head in a manner than Mikayla found quite regal. He continued to clip
his articles. His eyes occasionally glanced over the pages, cold, calculating.
They were alone in the museum; he knew they were. He could do it there, then.
No one would ever know. He could easily blend in with the crowds outside. No
one would ever know. All he needed with an efficient weapon. He flicked a
glance at the scissors in his hand. Cold steel, sharp, deadly. He looked over
the paper at Mikayla. “So, Doctor Knight, what can I do for you today?”

Mikayla
gestured to his computer in the corner. “I was wondering if I might be able to
use your computer?”

Dejeune
lowered the paper, gripping the scissors tight in his fist. “Certainly. Again,
my most humble apologies for your break-in. Have the police found nothing”

Mikayla
shook her head. “It’s been over a week. They’ll never find it now. I hope
whomever has it is enjoying it.”

Dejeune
allowed his eyes to grow wide with dismay. His jaw dropped slightly. He thought
it the perfect image of disgust. “I sincerely hope you don’t believe it was a
native. I would hate for you to leave with that image of Amorians.”

Mikayla
shrugged and smiled.  Distrust nagged at the base of her skull. “Would it
be too much trouble if I might use yours?”

Dejeune
shook his head and stood from his seat. He carried the scissors in his hand,
pointing out, prepared to run her through. He moved around the desk and
hesitated when Mikayla brushed past him. He swallowed stiffly. He couldn’t do
it; he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. The Wolf would understand.
Dr. Knight wasn’t really that much of a threat. She wasn’t as curious as the
Wolf pretended. He would get the diary and the Wolf would be happy. Dr. Knight
could live happily ever after.

Mikayla
settled into Dejeune’s chair and booted up the computer. She logged into the
Internet and typed in her search. She turned her head slightly. Dejeune was
staring at her with those piercing dark eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck
raised and gooseflesh appeared on her bare arms. The look unnerved her. “Is there
a problem, Monsieur Dejeune?”

Dejeune
shook his head to clear his mind. He knew Mikayla must go. He knew he must
accomplish his goal otherwise his own life was forfeit. He imagined the
scissors sliding into her flesh, the blood warm on his hands and grimaced. He
knew he couldn’t do that. It would require investing too much and too much
blood. She would have to bleed to death, which would take time. Time he was
rapidly running out of.

“I
was just wondering how your research was going, Doctor Knight.” Dejeune’s voice
was cool, aloof, reminding Mikayla of the first time she had met him.

Mikayla
turned back to the computer as it downloaded the information it had found in
response to its query. “It was going very well, but since everything was
stolen, I have kind of stalled.”

Dejeune
looked over her shoulder as information scrolled across the screen, and Mikayla
hit the mouse key, moving the information to the next page. His eyes widened as
he watched pictures of the royal family roll across the screen, pictures with
the deceased prince, a piece of history they had tried to forget. It had been
the first step in the moves of the Wolf that had brought about the death of
that young prince. Why was she looking at it? Why was she digging into the
past?

Dejeune
straightened from where he leaned against the desk, peering over her shoulder.
His brow was furrowed and his mouth set. It had to be done. It had to be done
now. He moved through the door of the office, excusing himself momentarily. He
pulled the door closed behind him as he set off in search of an efficient
weapon that would finish the job and save him, though it certainly wouldn’t
save his soul.

Mikayla
scrolled through the articles about the royal family until her eyes fell on a
family photo. A stranger towered over two children who were obviously Victoria
and Will. His smile was the same as Will’s, as were the deep gray eyes that
jumped off the screen. Sunlight danced through the blond hair of the three
children, blue waves crashed behind them on the beach. The Secluded City spired
into the clouds behind them, reminding the world of the power those three
children would one day wield.

Her
eyes rested on the text, words reporting the death of Prince Jonathan of Amor,
the Dauphin, the heir to the royal throne. The article reported that the
children had been sailing when the prince was tossed overboard and presumed a
victim of drowning. Ships from all of the countries of the Mediterranean had
rushed to the sight of the drowning, searching for the body of the lost prince,
but he had never been found. Although the press never accused the
eighteen–year-old Prince William of the death, suspicion rested solely on his
shoulders. Had he killed his older brother in order to inherit the throne or
had it been an unfortunate accident of people too young to be out in the storm
of that strength, a storm that even experienced sailors had avoided?

Mikayla
moved through the pictures on the web page, reading the synopsis of each
article, reading the captions and focusing on the photos. Following the article
on the death of Prince Jonathan, there were no other articles within the twelve
years that had passed. No photos were available, no reports of life or
activities. It was as if the royal family disappeared from existence until the
death of King James just ten days ago.

Mikayla
jerked her head up at a thump from the hall outside. Then, there was silence.
The only sound was the steady hum of the computer and the whir of the fans in
the ceiling. “Monsieur Dejeune?” She called out. She waited a heartbeat for a
response. When there was none, she stood slowly from her chair. Fear that
Dejeune had slipped on the highly glossed floor or dropped something that was
important tickled at her mind. He had seemed distracted before leaving the
room. Perhaps he had slipped and was injured.

Mikayla
pulled the door open and stepped from the brightly lit office into the gloom of
the display hall. Faint light filtered through the stained glass windows,
beaming streams into the glass cases. Jewels sparkled and winked. There was
silence in the hall. It was an ominous silence that chilled Mikayla’s blood.
There was no reason for the chill, but even the sounds of the cheering crowds
could not be heard. It was as if Mikayla were the only person on Amor.

“Monsieur
Dejeune?” Mikayla called out again. Her voice echoed back to her off of the
marble walls. Only her own voice answered her. She stepped further into the
hall, scanning the far side, the doors that led to various parts of the museum.
Nothing stirred except the dust motes in the sunbeams, dancing through the
still air.

It
was then that Mikayla’s nose picked up the sweet, sickening copper smell in the
air. It was faint, just a hint that wafted into the nostrils and permeated the
senses. She covered her nose with her hand and breathed through her mouth,
waiting for the nausea to pass.

“Monsieur
Dejeune?” Mikayla called again. The only sound was the rustle of wings of a
bird in the rafters of the ancient cathedral that had been converted into museum.
Sweat ran between Mikayla’s breasts, soaking her shirt, but her skin was icy.
Fear wove itself with anxiety at the stillness of the Hall of Artifacts. She
remembered this feeling; the dark, the silence. The feeling of dread in the pit
of her stomach, tightening and clenching until she was sure she would be sick.

Across
the hall, she caught sight of one of the cases open. Its glass door folded
back, revealing all of its splendors for everyone to touch and even walk away
with. Mikayla glanced around wondering who had opened the case. She didn’t
remember it being open when she had arrived earlier. Perhaps Dejeune had opened
it to clean some of the artifacts; after all, the museum would be bustling with
activity within the next few weeks, especially since the coronation and the 900
^th
anniversary were world-wide celebrated events.

She
took a tentative step away from the door into the gloom. Her shoes squeaked on
the marble, a loud noise in the stillness. She took another step, this one more
confident, further into the room. Again, she called for Dejeune to be answered
only by her own voice. Her eyes swept the darkened corners. She reminded
herself that the Hall was empty other than Dejeune who had disappeared to run
some errand. There was no monster to jump from the shadows.

Mikayla
laughed to herself softly and strode with more confidence across the room. Now,
she was jumping at shadows. When she had been in Washington, she had walked
down darkened streets in terrible neighborhoods, ridden the subway alone,
without ever thinking of what might have been in the shadows. Two months in
this tiny paradise had certainly changed her habits. She had less to fear in
Amor than she would ever have in Washington, yet here she was hesitating to
walk across the museum to close a glass case in the dim lighting. She laughed
again and marched to the case.

As
she drew closer, Mikayla recognized the case as being the guardhouse for the
crown of King Henry. She frowned as she drew closer. Something wasn’t right;
something didn’t set well. The smell of sweet copper was stronger near the
case, permeating the air, making the bile in her stomach rise in her throat.
She drew closer to the case, her hand covering her face to cut the smell. Her
eyes alighted on the interior of the case, rested on the satin pillow where the
crown should have been.

It
was gone.

Mikayla
gasped. She took another step, closer to the case, to get a better look. All
fear of the dark and what was hidden in the shadows forgotten. Her foot slid
out from beneath her. As she felt herself falling, Mikayla put a hand down to
stop herself from hitting the marble floor. It slipped in the sticky, warm
liquid that spread out around her, pooling at the base of the glass.